


honey gold (the room nobody lives in)

by slightlyworriedhuman



Series: when there's no one even there [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Eleven | Jane Hopper-centric, Gen, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Harrington & Eleven are friends, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington-centric, Synesthesia, Trauma, character pov changes, heavy unreality, kind of?, maladaptive daydreaming, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyworriedhuman/pseuds/slightlyworriedhuman
Summary: When he curls up on the brown couch with a book in hand, plucked from the same bookshelf he had retrieved the vinyl from, he absently thinks to himself how nice this is. It’s a much sweeter happiness than the drug that had been running through his veins what feels like forever ago, honey compared to blackstrap molasses. John Sebastian’s voice croons out a golden melody that almost matches the paint on the walls, and the music swirls around him as soft as a warm breeze, gentle and slow. It’s calm; it’s peaceful. Sanctuary.And Steve is fine.Steve is perfectly fine.





	honey gold (the room nobody lives in)

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to listen to the appropriate song for this fic, you can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlyjEinqh-g (The Room Nobody Lives In by John Sebastian). 
> 
> A different study of trauma, this time. Still Steve, but a different friend to help him out. I didn't actually originally plan this to be so El-heavy, but I really like how it turned out. Enjoy.

It’s a funny thing, how adrenaline and danger can make one compartmentalize the mind.

When he’s in the Russian base, when he’s fighting the Mind Flayer, when he’s driving a car straight into another with his only thought being that if he dies, he’ll die saving his friends-- his mind is focused, disregarding the fuzziness brought on by the drug they had used on him and Robin. When it fades, he’s able to just be in the moment, to focus solely on the others, on the enemy, on saving and surviving and  _ fighting _ .

Now, though, it’s an odd feeling of emptiness in the still that follows. He goes back to an empty house, rinses the blood off of his face in the sink, collapses in bed, too tired to do any more. Everything is so still, so hollow.  _ He _ feels so hollow. 

And it’s a funny thing, really, exactly  _ how _ the compartmentalization of one’s mind can work. When you’re in the heat of the moment, when all you know is that if you don’t stop, you’ll die, it’s easy to move forward and keep moving. But when it’s over, when things finally come to a stop, it’s as if you’ve taken one to many steps towards the line and run right over the edge of a cliff. And Steve, oh, he’s run right over that edge without a flinch or a whimper; he isn’t sure he even realizes the moment when his mind falls over. It’s a quiet affair, really, though anything would be after the hell he’s gone through. Calm. Peaceful, a slow descent instead of an uncontrolled freefall.

See, when the mind falls in such a way, sometimes it falls straight into a small room that’s left in the recesses of everyone’s subconscious. It’s a quiet place, peaceful, harmless. Sanctuary, next to whatever hell has led the person to find it. And when someone finds themselves in that room, it’s a relief, really; how can someone turn down the opportunity to finally have peace when it’s presented so innocently, so sweetly, cooling balm for a burn? 

And when Steve blinks awake in the morning, he doesn’t even remember falling asleep, doesn’t remember ever feeling so calm after that first night fighting on a November night two years ago. He sits up, disregards the twinges of pain in his face and ribs as if they aren’t even there; he ignores the blood on his pillowcase, changes out of the bloody uniform he hadn’t had the energy to change out of last night, pads downstairs in a loose t-shirt and pyjama pants and heads to the kitchen. His mind takes the key to that little room in his subconscious and locks the door securely, tucking the key away on a high shelf to be forgotten. 

If the paint on his walls seems as if it’s not the stale beige it’s been for years but the warmer shade of peach he’s always wanted to paint them, he doesn’t question it, just smiles slightly at the sight of the sunlight shining on the walls. When the food he throws together tastes both like fine dining and like bland paper, he doesn’t question it, just washes the dishes in boiling water that turns the skin of his hands bright pink as he hums to himself. And if when he passes through the halls, his eyes skip over the front door as if it’s simply a mural on the wall as opposed to a gate to the outside world, he doesn’t question it, just absently makes his way to the living room and scans the records that sit on the bookshelves beside the television, picking one at random and turning on the old vinyl player that’s been gathering dust for years in the corner of the living room.

When he curls up on the brown couch with a book in hand, plucked from the same bookshelf he had retrieved the vinyl from, he absently thinks to himself how nice this is. It’s a much sweeter happiness than the drug that had been running through his veins what feels like forever ago, honey compared to blackstrap molasses. John Sebastian’s voice croons out a golden melody that almost matches the paint on the walls, and the music swirls around him as soft as a warm breeze, gentle and slow. It’s calm; it’s peaceful. Sanctuary. 

And Steve is fine.

Steve is perfectly fine.

\--

A glaring oversight in his friendship with Steve, Dustin realizes far too late, is that he has no fucking clue where Steve lives. 

Sure, he knows Steve lives in the nice part of town, out in the woods where people with money can throw fancy parties (or, from Steve’s accounts, lonely teenagers can wander through the trees bored to hell until they remember all that’s happened in the woods and they can book it home). He’s never actually been to Steve’s, though, never found the way by biking through town. He doesn’t think they even came close to Steve’s place last Halloween. The phone book is no help, because, according to his mom, rich people can pay to not have their addresses listed in the yellow pages so teenagers can’t find them. Ha fucking ha. 

Shit.

His mom is ever so reluctant to let him out of her sight after the incident at Starcourt, which, honestly, he’s kind of grateful for. But after a day of her worrying from room to room, asking him if he’s okay, making sure he’s all bandaged up and not going to die on her, he feels like he’s going insane. When she finds him in the garage, hefting his bike from the rack and walking it out to the driveway, she almost loses her mind; he feels just bad enough to tell her that he’s worried about the others, wants to make sure they’re okay. She melts after a minute and lets him go, making him promise that if he’s staying the night somewhere, he’ll call her and let her know.

Uh huh. Sure. Got it.  _ Goodbye. _

(He’s never really been content to stay in one place, anyways, but after all the shit that’s happened, he’s not especially keen on the idea of staying somewhere without the party. To hell with that.)

The first person he tries to find is Robin, because he actually knows where she is, kind of. Lucas had told him at some point that the gal working with Steve lives down the street from him, and, well, there’s only so many wrong doors you can knock on before finding the right one, right?

She sweeps him into a hug after four doors slamming on him and one kind old man pointing him to the right household, and he gladly hugs her back, happy to see she isn’t dead from Russian poison (though he carefully avoids telling her this, seeing how wet her eyes seem to be when she finally pulls away). He gets the pleasure of meeting her dad, who seems very stressed out, and manages to drag her out of the house after realizing that she seems like she needs a distraction. They end up going to the arcade, and she kicks his ass at most of the games they try. (Some of them he lets her win. Some of them he tries valiantly to pretend he let her.) It’s nice to hang out with her outside of the mall, nice to see that she looks happier than she had when she’d opened the door.

He’s sad to say goodnight to her when she says she needs to get back for dinner, but it’s okay. He can just go to Lucas. 

He spends the next few days like that-- visiting the others, checking up on them, ignoring that they hadn’t called him first. It’s fine by him, really. They always seem happy to have someone to talk to, someone to distract them from the tragedy that hangs over all of their heads. (When he goes to Will’s, Ms. Byers [“call me Joyce, sweetie, you’ve known me since you couldn’t read your dungeon books!”] answers the door all too quickly with a hopeful look in her watery eyes. He pretends he doesn’t notice the tears again, knows she doesn’t like being sad in front of the party. Still, though, he makes sure to hug her extra tight even after she tells him that Will is over at Mike’s. She’s not his mom, but she might as well be, with all she’s done for him over the years.)

But it’s been four days now, and Steve hasn’t called. 

He checks with Robin, then with the party, even with Ms. Byers. They haven’t seen him in town, haven’t been called or anything. Therein lies the major oversight of his friendship with Steve, the problem that’s making him bite his cuticles in anxiety. He doesn’t know where Steve is, and Steve sure as hell isn’t a recluse. What if he’s been taken by Russians or something? 

Yeah, it’s a stupid idea. All the Russians were arrested, Ms. Byers assures him when he brings it up. He’s probably just taking some time to recover.

And Hopper’s alive, and Billy’s going to take them all out for ice cream. Uh huh.  _ Bullshit. _

(He doesn’t say that to Ms. Byers, of course, just nods and smiles and pretends he isn’t blatantly filing that under ‘lies adults tell legal minors’ in his head.)

He’s almost home when it finally hits him, something that should have occurred to him much sooner. Who had started all of this two years ago? Who could find people better than a GPS?

When he radios Mike to ask where El is, he’s surprised to hear that she’s staying with the Byers, that the reason he hadn’t seen her there was because she had been spending time with Max. Shared traumas do bring people together, he supposes, and god knows that they’ve both lost people in awful ways. As soon as he finds out, he calls the Byers’ house, is greeted by a surprised Will who tells him that yeah, El’s just got back from Max’s, what do you need?

“Will, is it okay if I swing by? I really,  _ really _ need to talk to her.”

“Is everything okay?” He almost shrugs before he realizes that Will can’t see it over the phone. 

“I don’t know. I just need to talk to her.”

“I’ll tell mom you’re coming for dinner.” And god, if that isn’t such a nice thought compared to his actual reason why he needs to come by.

When he arrives, he’s surprised when he walks into Will’s room and finds not just Will and El, but Jonathan and Nancy sitting together on Will’s floor, waiting for him. He stops in his tracks, almost slams into the doorframe in his surprise when El turns and smiles weakly at him.

“Hi, Dustin.” The others turn to him as if they’re expecting him.

“Uh. ...Hi. Why is…” He waves his hand at Jonathan and Nancy. 

“Will said you didn’t know if everything was okay. We want to be able to help.” Nancy’s first to speak, smiling apologetically at him; Will ducks his head when Dustin shifts to glare at him. “What’s going on?” 

With a sigh, he closes the door behind him, sits next to El. “It’s, uh, about Steve. I haven’t been able to find him, and I don’t… quite know where he lives. He isn’t in the yellow pages or anything, y’know?” He expects them to brush off his worry, tell him that he’s doing too much for such a small concern. To his surprise, though, Jonathan frowns and shifts next to Nancy. 

“I tried to go by his place yesterday. The door was locked, though. I don’t know if he was home.” Huh. So he isn’t the only one aside from Robin worrying about Steve. (As much as he would love to have her help on this, he’d learned the second time he’d swung by that the reason her dad had looked so stressed was because he was trying to decide what the hell to do with her after she’d been found at Starcourt. Until tomorrow, the answer has been determined as ‘house arrest.’ Fun.) 

“Why did you need to talk to me?” El asks, obvious confusion on her face. And here’s the part he had wanted to try to convince her of alone. 

“Well… I know that you can find people, right? Like, where they are?” Her confusion quickly twists into a quiet upset.

“Haven’t been able to use my powers. Aren’t working.” 

“Right, right, I know. But that’s just the stuff like moving things, right?” When she moves back into the range of puzzlement, he continues. “I was thinking, and like, you moving things is different than seeing things, right? Moving things is active, but seeing things is passive. Right?” Will lights up beside El, catching what Dustin’s trying to say. 

“Action moves versus passive action, right? One takes up a move, the other happens without taking it.” 

Thank god at least somebody here understands him.

“Both take energy, though…” El trails off, puts her hand up to her mouth in thought in an action that’s a surprising mirror of Ms. Byers. “Not as much, though.” Thank god, thank  _ god. _ He’d thought he was going to have to beg her to try to use her powers again; she’d seemed so upset when they’d stopped working. “You want me to find Steve?”

“ _ Please.  _ I…” He wants to say he’s worried, but what comes out instead is a small “I miss him.” God, he hopes that doesn’t sound weird. She nods, then hesitates, before glancing over to Nancy. 

“Can you stay?” Nancy nods, smiling softly at her. 

“Yeah, of course. What do you need, El?”

\--

He’s never felt so comfortable in his own home, he thinks.

The rooms have never felt so cozy, so warm, as opposed to the empty cold he’s felt in years past. When he walks through them, the record player sings just as loudly behind him, soft golden hues that seem to bounce through the halls of his home. For the first time in god knows how long, he feels  _ content, _ happy in a way not inspired by fleeting moments. It warms him, brings him a sense of peace he’s never quite known in this house. 

And sure, not everything seems quite right, when he really, really thinks about it. The book he’s picked up is hard to read, and he knows that he should be much further in it than he is right now. The clocks seem to be a bit broken-- whenever he goes from one to another, they read different times, as if a simple walk from one to the other takes minutes, hours rather than seconds. On that note, his memories feel as if they’re disorganized, lying about chains of events; he finds himself finishing things he remembers starting long ago, finds himself in rooms he doesn’t remember walking to, finds cold food in the microwave. He hasn’t had to restart the vinyl player, hasn’t had to move the needle back to the beginning for a while to listen to the one song that seems to play. That’s okay, though. He likes this song. He likes  _ this,  _ this sense of happiness and peace. Why would he  _ want _ to really think about it? He’s happy here, content. It’s a safe haven, and he loves it for it.

The main thing that bothers him happens when he looks in the mirror, because when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognize the face that looks out. The face in the glass moves with him, sure, but there’s a disconnect between that face and him, even when he can almost recognize the features. Every time he looks, it seems to have changed, too, melted and remolded almost exactly the same but with  _ something _ different Steve can’t quite put his finger on. After a while, though, it stops bothering him. He just ignores the mirror when he steps out of the shower, doesn’t look at it but for curious glances, questioning if it’s really supposed to be him looking back (and yes, he knows how mirrors work, but his must be broken).

He feels happy, though, He feels fine. He’s comfy here, curling up on his couch with his book; he’s happy to lay on the kitchen floor and watch the clouds move through the windows. He’s happy to be  _ here. _

And if he’s alone, here, that’s okay. It might be the first time he’s been okay being this alone, but it feels surprisingly peaceful. Nothing to start fights or cause worry. 

But when he hears gentle footsteps padding through the hardwood floors, he looks up from his book, and feels no particular surprise when he sees El standing in the hallway between the living room and kitchen, her features slanted in puzzled surprise.

“Hey, El.” Her eyes widen, that surprised look growing stronger, and he absently wonders why when he smiles at her. “Do you wanna come sit?” He pats the sunny orange cushion next to him on the couch. After a moment, she slowly shakes her head, eyes still wide. “Oh. Okay. Well, if you want you can look around, we probably have something in here that’ll interest you. Bathroom’s upstairs, if you need it.” It takes another moment, but the surprise clears up and she finally smiles back at him, soft and nervous. 

“Okay.” Beaming at her, he turns back to his book. 

“If you wanna come back later, I can read this to you, if you’d be interested. And I think we have board games.” A quiet footstep on the floorboards, and then, softly: “I’d like that.” When he looks up again, he catches the back of her purple shirt disappearing into the hall. 

Maybe company will be nice.

He hears her footsteps going up the stairs, quickly disappearing under the soft sounds of his song. Yeah, the company will be nice. He likes El, likes how she’s rough and soft and fierce and young all at the same time. He’s never really gotten to spend much time with her. It’ll be nice if she decides she wants to come back and sit with him.

It’s not long before she returns, (though he can’t quite tell what’s long and short anymore, and the clocks are no use anyways) but he only realizes when he hears her voice behind him. “Can I sit with you?” He looks up to smile at her again, and feels distinctly pleased when she readily smiles back, eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“Yeah, of course, kid.” She circles around, slowly sits beside him on the yellow couch. “What do you wanna do?” A small shrug. 

“Talk?” Why not? Not like he’s really talked to anyone over the last few days. He picks his bookmark up off of the couch arm and carefully slots it in his book before he sets it aside, turning to her. 

“What do you wanna talk about?” She hesitates, then shrugs again. 

“Don’t care. I… missed you.” Missed him? Huh. He carefully slings an arm over her shoulder, hugs her gently to his side. 

“You don’t need to miss me now, huh, El? I’m right here. Just taking a bit of time to relax. It’s been nice.” She nods against him and leans into him, adjusting so her head is on his shoulder. He hadn’t really thought her one for contact, before, but he guesses that between Mike and Joyce, she’s probably more than used to hugs by now. 

“Where is this?” He frowns slightly at that, confused.

“It’s the living room, silly. Home. Well, my home anyways.” (He’s called this place home before, but it never felt quite  _ home _ so much as a house to reside in, a difference that comes to his mind and slips away easily the next moment.) “Up to standard?” El nods against him; when he looks down at her, her eyes are roving the room, taking it in. 

“Uh huh. Pretty.” Now that’s a word he hasn’t heard used to describe his home in a long, long while. 

“Yeah. Pretty.” The needle on the record player whirs along in its black path, golden voice still crooning out a slow melody that rings through the room. Steve lets himself settle against the arm of the couch, shifts slightly so El can better rest against him. It’s comfortable, a quiet kind of warmth made solid with the light pressure of another person, with the view of sunlight shining off of the dark oak shelves and the subtle bronze paint. 

“I like it here. Home.” Her voice is soft, and for some reason, Steve’s sure she sounds a bit sad. 

“Well, you can stay as long as you want, El. I can make us some dinner, if that’s okay.” To his surprise, she shakes her head, though she doesn’t lean away from him. 

“I have to go.” Oh. Well, that’s okay. She can come again later. “Dustin’s worried about you.” Her words shock him, his heart giving a little unpleasant twist. 

“He is?” There’s no need to be worried about him. No reason at all. Steve’s fine, he’s happy. Doin’ just fine, kid, dontcha know? “Well, you can tell him that he doesn’t need to be worried, okay? Robin, too, if she’s in on it.” El sits up, finally, and he feels a spark of sadness when she looks at him with definite upset in her eyes. 

“Where’s the door, Steve?” Hm? The question throws him for a loop, and he pauses, furrowing his brow. 

“It’s…” For some reason, the words won’t come to mind, won’t fully form in his head or on his tongue. All there is is a vague image, coming down the stairs and seeing a painting. He raises an arm and points, instead, past the stairs in the foyer. “Over there.” She nods, though she still looks upset. It tugs at his heartstrings, and before she moves to fully get up, he drops the arm pointing at the entrance hall and instead raises it to her, motioning for a hug. “C’mere, kid.” After a moment, she leans in, buries her face in his shoulder when she wraps her arms around him. “Come back soon, huh?” El finally pulls away after a minute and stands up, smiling at him again even with that definite sadness in her eyes. He hopes he isn’t the one to make her sad. 

“Okay, Steve.” Her mouth opens slightly, brow furrowing, as if she’s trying to figure out what to say; after a moment, she quietly says, “You should come with me.” 

He doesn’t want to leave, not really. Sure, he wants to see Dustin and Robin and everyone, but he  _ likes _ it here. He doesn’t  _ want _ to leave this home, this warmth. But he smiles at her anyways, tries not to let that odd twist of guilty sadness in his heart shine through. 

“Not tonight, kid. Next time, okay?” He can’t bear to see that sadness in her eyes, doesn’t want to think about his own, so he picks up his book again, carefully opens it and sets the bookmark on the arm of the couch. He hears her socks padding away on the floor, and when he looks up again a minute later, she’s gone, no trace of her left. 

He looks back down at the page and tries to ignore the fact that the music’s gold seems a little paler without her.

\--

When El seems to freeze up, Dustin isn’t sure if he should intervene, pull the blindfold off or something. She’s been sitting against Will’s bed for at least a few minutes, now, but it’s only in the past few moments that she’s done anything but furrow her brow in concentration. 

“Did you find him?” Nancy whispers, leaning in towards her. They all sit in a semi-circle around her, watching with bated breath with the quiet sound of radio static in the background from Dustin’s pocket radio. El doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to react. Shit. He knows that when they’ve done this before, she’s been able to at least answer questions, to hear them in that weird void she says she goes to when she finds them. After a moment, though, she speaks, a quiet mumble that Dustin has to lean in to hear. “I’m… in a home?” More a question than a statement, as if she’s surprised. “No Steve, though.” 

“Is that weird?” Jonathan asks, echoing Dustin’s own thoughts. She nods again. 

“Normally just… people. Not places. Not… walls.” Jesus, Steve, what the hell had happened to him now? 

“It might be his house?” Nancy pauses, then continues, “What colour is the wallpaper?” 

“...Not paper. Paint. It’s…” Her brow furrows again. “Yellow? Gold. But… also orange? It… it changes.” Dustin’s about to say something, but she freezes again, her eyebrows raising beneath the blindfold and her jaw dropping slightly.

“What is it?” Will places a light hand on her knee, but she doesn’t react, doesn’t seem to even realize he’s there. An agonizing moment passes, turns into a near full minute of her surprised silence, the only movement a slow shake of her head. Then, out of nowhere, as if responding to something--

“...Okay.” 

“What is it? Did you find him?” Dustin tries desperately to keep his voice down, even though he’s never quite been good at it. It doesn’t seem to bother her, though. Another moment passes before she seems to untense slightly, and  _ smiles _ , soft and nervous.

“...I’d like that.” What the hell? They wait another minute or so with bated breath, none of them daring to move or speak. Finally, though, she lets out a slow breath, sniffing slightly. 

“He saw me. He…  _ talked _ to me.” 

“Wait, wait, I thought people couldn’t do that.” Will looks as confused as they all feel, but she just shakes her head slightly.

“They  _ can’t. _ ”

\--

She’s upstairs, now, walking through the hallway. 

_ Then how did he talk to you? _ El shakes her head, looking around. 

“I don’t know.” The hallway is… odd. Weird. The paint seems more solid a colour up here, doesn’t shift like water when she looks at it. What colour is it? Max had said it when they were at the mall, trying on clothes. Oh! “Peach.”

_ Peach? _

“The walls.” There are doors in the hallway too, four on the left and two on the right. She thinks so, at least. When she walks by the doors, it feels as if they aren’t doors, as if her eyes slide right over them. Paintings on a wall. Why would Steve paint doors? The only two that see to be real doors are at the end of the hallway, the second on the right and the fourth on the left.

_ Steve’s walls aren’t peach… _ She shrugs slightly, pushes open the door on her right. It’s a simple bathroom, with fluffy towels and a black fuzzy rug before the counter. When she steps in, her eyes are drawn to the mirror; what she sees makes her jerk back slightly, surprise and slight alarm running through her. It’s her looking back out, yes, but…  _ not _ her, too. The face is what she’s seen before, but it looks  _ different _ , somehow, unfamiliar. She doesn’t like it. 

_ What was he doing? _ She pokes at her face, watches as the hand in the mirror does the same. There’s blood slowly dripping from the not-her’s nose in the reflection, though she doesn’t feel it on her skin at all.

“He was reading. Listening to music.”

_ Steve reads? For fun? _

_Don’t be mean._ _Where are you right now?_ She hurries to step out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The room across from her is open, sunlight filtering through the open door and spilling onto the wood beneath her feet. Hadn’t the door been closed?

“His room… I think.” When she peeks inside, it certainly  _ looks _ like a bedroom. The sheets are slightly rumpled, as if someone had tried to make them but couldn’t be bothered to actually pull them straight. There’s a large window, blinds pulled up to let in the sun. “I’m going to go back down.” It feels somehow invasive to be peeking into his room like this, even when he had said that she could look around. Her socks aren’t wet, somehow, even though they normally are after being in the Between. She’s never actually gone from the Between to a home, though, so perhaps that’s how it’s supposed to be. The floor is warm beneath her feet when she slowly pads back down the stairs, more windows letting in the sun to heat both the wood and her skin. Was it this sunny earlier? Something feels  _ off _ about the bottom of the stairs, like she’s missing something that should be there, the painted doors in the hallway all over again. When she gets back to the room Steve’s in, he’s reading the book still. 

“Can I sit with you?” He looks up, and when he smiles readily at her, she feels an odd swoop of happiness inside her chest, drawing her own face into a smile. 

“Yeah, of course, kid.” He doesn’t look as hurt as he had at the mall, she realizes, slowly shuffling around the couch. And hadn’t that couch been orange earlier? It’s yellow, now, another food colour Max had pointed out at the mall. For some reason, she doesn’t feel particularly concerned about it. “What do you wanna do?”

_ Can you talk to him? Ask him where he is? _ Their voice is a bit fainter, now, as if the music is drowning them out with its golden tune. Since when is music… colour?

“Talk?” He shrugs, picks up a small piece of paper from the side of the couch and puts it between the pages of his book before setting it aside. When she looks to read the title, the letters seem to blur and jump about; it’s out of sight before she can even try to make it out. 

“What do you wanna talk about?” She… isn’t quite sure. Was she supposed to ask about something?

“Don’t care. I… missed you.” It feels like she’s speaking someone else’s words (I missed him), but he puts an arm around her anyways, pulls her to his side so she’s leaning against him. It’s comfortable, another piece of unexpected happiness.

“You don’t need to miss me now, huh, El? I’m right here. Just taking a bit of time to relax. It’s been nice.” She nods, leans into him a bit so her head rests on his shoulder (just like she used to do with him before the mall, when they watched TV together, it hadn’t been Steve, oh no, but the memory leaves her before the name can find its way to her mind) and looks around the room. There are shelves on the far wall, beside the record player that sings in gold; the walls are a muted brownish-yellow, like Nancy’s necklace earlier. Almost gold, but not quite.

_ El, ask him where he is. _

“Where is this?”

“It’s the living room, silly. Home. Well, my home anyways.” He seems to stiffen against her for just a moment, eases back into the warm comfort the next. She likes how the sun lights up the walls, makes them seem to almost glow; she likes how the light brings out darker swirls in the shelves. He has a nice home. “Up to standard?”

“Uh huh. Pretty.” He sighs slightly next to her, as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It sounds… happy.

“Yeah. Pretty.” He leans slightly into the pillow beside him, and she shifts to follow, bringing her feet up onto the yellow couch so she can scoot herself closer. He’s nice to lay on. Comfortable. Everything here is comfortable.

_ El! Can you hear me? _ The voice is there again, distant, muted by the gentle music. Oh. Right. She doesn’t want to talk to them, but something in her pulls, tells her she has to. It makes her feel sad.

“I like it here. Home.” 

_ El, are you stuck there? Can you hear me? _

“Well, you can stay as long as you want, El. I can make us some dinner, if that’s okay.” Steve’s voice is so soft, so kind. Warm. She doesn’t  _ want _ to go, hasn’t felt this peaceful in a long time (and has it been a long time? for some reason, time seems off, here, slow and fast and somehow to the left).

_ El, jesus, please don’t get stuck there, can we pull her out? _ That voice hisses on the s’s in its words, barely audible over the soft song. 

“I have to go.” But she  _ doesn’t _ have to, something in her says. She doesn’t  _ have _ to go. She can stay here with Steve and read books on the couch and listen to music, can stay where it's warm and soft and  _ nice. _ But that thing inside her pulls again, and she finds herself saying without being fully aware of the words until they’re out of her mouth, “Dustin’s worried about you.” He freezes again beside her, the arm around her shoulders stiffening; when she looks up at him, she can almost see the traces of a bruise beneath his suddenly concerned,  _ confused _ expression. 

“He is?” And his voice seems shaky, now,  _ weak-- _ the music suddenly seems a bit paler, that gold sound fading the slightest bit as if someone had rubbed a pencil eraser over ink. “Well, you can tell him that he doesn’t need to be worried, okay? Robin, too, if she’s in on it.” 

_ El, you’re bleeding a lot, I think you need to come back. _ So quiet, barely audible over the music, but she forces herself to finally sit up from where she leans against Steve. It  _ hurts _ , to pull away, but something rises in her mind again, tugs her back from the warmth. 

“Where’s the door, Steve?” He pauses, and she feels a definite sort of upset rise in her, watching his forehead crease in thought. This is his  _ home. _ He should know where the way out is, shouldn’t he?

“It’s…” He pauses again, before raising his other arm to point behind him, back towards the stairs. Back where she had felt that same odd skipping feeling, like the painted doors upstairs. Oh, Steve. “Over there.” She nods, that pulling thing inside her trying to tug her away, that greedy little voice at war with it whispering to stay, stay here, sit back down against Steve and let the warmth envelop her. Before she can force herself to leave, he shifts again, stops pointing behind him and extends his arm to her. “C’mere, kid.” And how can she turn that down, even if she knows she  _ has _ to leave? She lets herself almost fall forward, wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. His arms close around her, and she could cry from how warm and nice and  _ safe _ she feels here, but the tears don’t seem to come. “Come back soon, huh?”

_ El, El, come on, sweetie, you gotta come back. _

It takes almost more effort than using her powers does to finally pull away, to let her feet fall on the wood floor again and push herself up from the orange couch (and it had been yellow, yellow,  _ lemon _ ). 

“Okay, Steve.” Even though she feels like crying, her words aren’t choked up like they do when she gets sad, just quiet. There’s something in his eyes, like he  _ knows _ something is wrong, and she doesn’t know what to say to make it go away, to make Steve come back. “You should come with me.” That look in his eyes grows, and it hurts her like the bite had when she recognizes it as the same sadness she feels right now, mirrored back better than that odd mirror upstairs ever could. 

“Not tonight, kid. Next time, okay?” She nods, because what else can she do? He picks up his book again, and she slowly turns, begins to walk towards the door. It doesn’t feel as warm anymore to her, as if the sun’s turned cold; the paint on the walls seems ever-fluid, cycling between peach and Nancy’s necklace and almost-white. The floor is cold beneath her socks. She feels something wet as she reaches for the painted doorknob, wet on her feet and her face, cold and warm and  _ sad _ \--

And her eyes are flying open to a group of people around her, and she’s  _ crying _ , tears running down her face and metallic blood in her mouth. Her blindfold is in Dustin’s hand, but in a moment the view is blocked by Nancy, thin arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. She’s colder than Steve was, and just thinking that pulls fresh tears as she leans into the embrace. In her head, she can still hear the song, indistinct and colourless. And now that she listens to it, thinks about it outside of that warm house where the sun is warm and everything is soft and Steve looks happy, it’s not such a comforting song, just  _ sad _ like she is,  _ sad _ like she’d seen in Steve’s eyes,  _ sad, sad, sad. _

\--

It had been scary when El had stopped responding to them, seemed to sink back against Will’s bed like she was reclining into a sofa. The time between her words had begun to slow, as if time was turning into sticky honey, like wherever she was visiting was going slower than the rest of the world. Scarier was when he realized she was humming something in the silences between her words, even as her expression dropped from a smile to a frown.

It had hurt somewhere in his chest when a damp spot had grown on the makeshift blindfold, and Dustin had realized with an awful jolt that she was  _ crying, _ not just bleeding out _. _ They’d tried to pull her out, then, had shook her and called her name. She hadn’t come back, though, and they were worried she was stuck, somehow, wherever Steve was. They’d barely been able to understand her quiet “you should come with me” through the soft sobs, and when she didn’t respond to Nancy literally grabbing her shoulders and giving her a firm shake, Dustin had done the only thing he could think to do. He’d grabbed the blindfold and yanked it up off of her head, and her eyes had flown open, red-rimmed and filled with tears as she gasped. 

Now, Nancy holds her as her quiet sobs begin to lessen, as she sniffs more and shakes less. They’re all crowded around, touching her in some way, desperate to help; Dsutin rubs her back gently as Will runs his fingers through her hair, Jonathan hovering over them with a hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t know how Ms. Byers hasn’t heard them yet, though from the clattering in the kitchen, he assumes she’s been busy cooking. Thank god. He doesn’t want to explain that he broke her new kid.

Finally, El pulls back from Nancy, still sniffing, and wipes at her face. “He--” Her voice is choked, and she takes a moment to try to breathe, hands falling from where they’d clutched Nancy’s shirt to grip Nancy’s hands. “He was… home.” 

“Home?” She nods. 

“Home, but…  _ not _ home. It was so  _ warm,  _ and  _ nice,  _ and he--” El sniffs again, before her voice drops to a mumble. “He was  _ happy _ . But it was  _ wrong. _ ” 

“What do you mean, wrong?”  _ Is _ this something with the Russians? She shakes her head, seemingly searching for the words. 

“The… The doors were painted, and the walls kept… kept changing colours. The music didn’t stop. It was  _ sad. _ ” Jonathan scoots forward, a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“The music or the house?”

“ _All_ of it.” For a moment, he’s afraid she’s going to start crying again. “The mirror didn’t work and the couch changed colours and the sun felt wrong and it was warm at first but then it was _cold_ , and the song was _gold_ and it was _sad,_ _Steve_ was happy but he was _sad!”_ She does start crying again at that, shoulders shaking as her head drops. Not sure what to do, Dustin just pushes himself closer, loops an arm around her. “He was-- It was _wrong,_ he-- it was all _wrong._ It was happy, but it was _wrong._ ” 

Jesus, Steve, what the hell’s going on now?

When El stops crying, they have to hurry to help her pretend she hasn’t been crying before they can leave Will’s room. Dustin’s not sure Ms. Byers can handle something else going wrong right now, and everyone else seems to share the same idea. Dinner’s a tense affair, and it’s hardly made better by the fact that halfway through, Ms. Byers brings up Steve and wonders how he’s doing, weren’t you looking for him earlier, Dustin? Once it’s over, though, they regroup in Will’s room for the small bit of time Dustin has left before he has to head home. Finally, Nancy quietly says, “Jonathan, you said you drove by but nobody was there, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, his car was in the driveway, but I didn’t see him. Nobody answered when I knocked.”

“He’s there,” El says with a quiet finality. They fall silent again for a moment, until--

“I can pick his door.” Nancy seems ashamed of the admission, even when Dustin turns to gawk at her with admiration. “We can go and get him out tomorrow.”

“No.” Huh? He turns back to El; there’s an odd expression on her face as she seemingly mulls it over, chewing on her bottom lip. “I go in. I can get him out.”

“Without us?” He doubts if she can haul Steve out of the door without her powers, but something tells him that isn’t the ‘get him out’ she means.

“Yes.” 

Well, shit. Guess it’s a rescue plan as good as any.

\--

Steve doesn’t think too much about the sadness he’d felt when El left, just tries to continue on. Something seems wrong, though, like he’s skipped a stair going down when he passes through the foyer or looks at a clock. He still refuses to look in the mirror, refuses to pay attention to the clocks anymore. Dinner is a fast affair, tasty and flavourless, and when he goes to bed, he’s struck with the odd urge to pick up the phone and call someone. He doesn’t know who he would call, though, so he simply turns off the lights and closes his eyes. 

In the morning he awakes with a gasp, his heart pounding and a frightful urgency running through his veins; the feeling fades quickly, though, and he soon doesn’t even remember the dream that had brought it on, just a passing nightmare of flesh and teeth and a cold white room. He showers, though, stands beneath the warm water until his skin looks pink (and it shouldn’t look like that under water this temperature, but he shrugs it off) and dresses in a loose t-shirt and pyjama pants. It’s comfortable; it’s peaceful. Warm, again. (He ignores how cold the floor is beneath his bare feet, tells himself it’s just because he isn’t wearing socks. It’s fine. Everything is fine.)

And when he’s sitting on the couch again, he doesn’t jump when he hears footsteps on the floor again, soft shuffling towards him. When he looks up from the book, he smiles again, feels happiness sing through him when El smiles back. “Heya, kid. How’s it going?” 

She circles around the couch and sits beside him again, leans against him before he can even put his book down and wraps her arms around his middle. “Missed you.”

“Aw, I missed you too, El.” He carefully sets the book down and hugs her back, before shifting to pull her more fully onto the couch. She settles against him again, and for a moment, he swears he sees a flash of black in her hair. “What’s up, huh? You doing alright?” A shrug juts her shoulders against him, and he frowns. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Can we…” She pauses, as if searching for words. “Can we just… be here? For a minute?” 

“Yeah, El. Of course.” She shifts against him, resting her head against his chest. Moving one arm from where it wraps around her, he reaches up to gently pet her curls (is there a headband in her hair? his thumb seems to catch on some sort of fabric), gazing at the record player. The vinyl spins slowly, still, the same golden tune crooning out like honey dripping from a jar. It’s nice, some sort of safe spot amidst the world. Even so, he can’t help but notice how she seems tense against him, how her shoulders seem bunched up in stress or sadness,  _ something _ that eventually prompts him to ask, “Are you okay?” 

“Can we talk?” Her voice is barely audible over the music, but he nods anyways. 

“Yeah, of course, El. What is it?” She seems hesitant to talk, as if she’s worried she’s going to say something wrong. Finally, though, she mumbles out, “Are you happy here?” 

“Hm? Yeah, I am.” He is, he thinks. It’s peaceful here, with the soft music and the peach wallpaper; he likes the warmth, likes the feeling of comfort. “And I’m happier now that you’re here.” To his surprise, she pulls away at that, sitting back and looking at him with a somber look on her youthful face. 

“But it’s  _ wrong, _ here.” Huh? He frowns at that, tilts his head quizzically. What’s wrong with his home? It’s warm and nice, a sanctuary after everything that’s happened. 

“How’s it wrong?” She presses her lips together, then points to his book.

“What book is that?” What?

“I dunno, just something I pulled from the shelf.” With a sigh, he gently catches her hand and pulls her back, tries to ignore the weird tugging in his heart when he tries to remember the name of the book. It’s unimportant, anyways. “El, listen. There’s nothing wrong, okay, sweetie? Look. It’s okay. Everything’s okay here.” He smiles at her, but she just seems more distressed. 

“That’s  _ it. _ It’s  _ okay _ here. And it… it  _ shouldn’t _ be.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? Even as she speaks, she sinks back into the couch, leans against him again, arms wrapping around his neck once more. Face buried in his hair, she mumbles against his ear, “It  _ shouldn’t _ be. Doesn’t it feel  _ wrong? _ ” 

“It feels like home, El.” (He pushes away the memory of the misaligned clocks, of the cold meals in the microwave only seconds after it had beeped. He pushes away how the couch seems to change with the walls, how he can’t remember much of his book, how the mirror stares back with a bloody, haunted face that isn’t quite familiar.) “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” She sniffs slightly, shakes her head against Steve’s. Her hair tickles his nose. 

“Then why doesn’t the door work?” 

“El--”

“The door isn’t  _ there. _ And the song doesn’t stop.” He sighs, hates how his heart feels as if it's breaking with every sad word she says. “We want you to come back.” 

“Come back from where, sweetie?” (He remembers getting in trouble before for feigned ignorance, where did the liquor bottle go, Steve, where did the money go, where did you get this, who do you work for,  _ who do you work for?  _ It leaves a sour taste on his tongue.) 

“You  _ know. _ ” Accusatory, miserable, desperate, why is the music growing so pale? He doesn’t  _ like _ it, doesn’t want it to stop. He’s happy here. He’s  _ happy _ here. “Please, Steve.” 

“El, I don’t--” 

“I  _ know. _ ” She hugs him tighter, and even though a part of him screams to push her away and return to the warmth, the comfort, he can’t make himself do that. He can’t hurt someone he’s already been hurt for before. He doesn’t like the feeling of his hands shaking against her back, doesn’t like when she sniffs again, something warm and damp falling on his shoulder. Is she crying? Over  _ him? _ No,  _ no _ , that won’t do at all. He’s supposed to be a protector (though he’d already failed), supposed to be someone the kids can come  _ to _ for help, not come  _ for. _

“I…” What is he supposed to say? How can he ask why she’s making his safe little world come apart,  _ how  _ she’s somehow muting the sweet music, blanching the wallpaper with every blink (and is there something in his eyes, why is he blinking so much)? How is she making the sun turn cold? Is she using her powers? “What are you doing, El?” His voice sounds so quiet, feels so weak. 

“It’s okay outside, Steve.” He doesn’t like watching the wallpaper lose colour, doesn’t like watching his carefully constructed home seem to fall apart (and it had been so carefully constructed, hadn’t it, yes, honey gold and warm peach and everything just right, just  _ fine _ ), so he closes his eyes, tilts his head to rest against hers. “It’s okay to  _ go. _ ” 

It’s a dreadful moment, he thinks, when his mind finally catches up to what she’s saying. Like running through the woods from something only to realize you’ve just stepped over a cliff. At the same moment he realizes what she means, finds that little key in his mind once again, he desperately clings to what he still has, tries to let the music grow loud once again. 

“I don’t  _ want _ to, though.” It’s barely more than a whisper, and he realizes with a start that the quiet isn’t just quiet, but a choked sort of rasp, watery and hoarse. “It’s… It’s  _ nice _ here.” Is that so selfish of him? He wants to stay away from the things that had hurt so much, that  _ will _ hurt so much, wants to be able to ignore the pain his mind has been trapping under dusty records and peach paint. “I like it here, it… it’s  _ warm. _ It’s  _ nice. _ ”

“I  _ know, _ Steve. I know.” And she does know, he supposes; she’s been through more than he could dream of, an entire life built on fabrication and carefully painted walls. But still,  _ still _ , his heart cries out for the warmth and comfort he’s built for himself even as it seems to pull apart, wants to bury itself under honey once again. Even though he knows she’s telling the truth (and why wouldn’t she? he’s heard her repeat that ‘friends don’t lie’ more than once before, and she’s certainly his friend), that little part of his heart that shies desperately from the cold prompts him to ask “Why? Why can’t… I’m  _ happy _ here, El.”

“It’s not  _ real _ happy. It’s…” She pauses, another warm drip landing on his neck, then taps him gently on the head. Some sort of ugly chuckle rips from his throat at the implication-- it’s a headcase, alright. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so, kid.” He still doesn’t open his eyes, not when he realizes that the music is no longer playing, not when he realizes that the only warmth on his body is where El presses against him and where tears are rolling down his face. When had that started? “I guess so.” He can’t stop his voice from breaking, hates that he’s  _ crying, _ of all the silly things to do. He hasn’t cried in… fuck, so long. Not after the Russians, not after the demodogs, not even after Nancy had broken his heart. 

“Dustin said he misses you.” She sniffs again, and he realizes all too late that the warm patch on hi shoulder isn’t just tears. Of course this girl would bleed for him. Stupid, stupid, stupid Steve. It’s supposed to be the other way around. 

“Can--” He swallows, pretends his voice isn’t cracking, pretends his ribs aren’t aching from suppressing little sobs. “Can we stay here? Just for a little bit?” She nods against his neck, and he feels fabric rubbing against his skin, not a headband but a blindfold. “I’m sorry, El. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It… It was warm.” Yeah.

Yeah, it was.

\--

And that little place inside the mind, the room that he’d fallen into, is empty again, a room nobody lives in anymore but one sorely missed.

**Author's Note:**

> Medically accurate? Hell no. Cathartic as fuck to write? Absolutely. I listened to that song for like 6 straight hours to get the mood down for this fic and ended up crying writing the end. I plan to update my other fic soon, but also I just got inspired to write the worst au ever for ITSV, so I'll be juggling those two. Swing by on tumblr @lesbian-steveharrington to chat!
> 
> If you suffer from PTSD, remember that you are not alone. There will always be someone to talk to, and someone who is willing to help. If you have nobody, if you need to just talk, I'm here to listen. <3


End file.
